Chapter 6: Midnight Touches

The clock blinked 2:47 AM in angry red numbers when I opened my eyes.

The bed felt too cold, too wide. Sleep clung to my skin like a second, unwanted layer, but something heavier pulled me up.

I pushed the silk covers away and stepped onto the cool marble floor. The night air brushing my legs made me shiver, but it wasn’t the cold that kept me restless—it was something else.

Something that had been building ever since the gala, ever since Koven pinned me with that impossible look.

I didn’t even know where I was going at first.

My feet moved on their own, dragging me through the darkened penthouse until the silver glint of the balcony caught my eye.

The glass door was cracked open. The wind tugged at the sheer curtains like ghostly hands. I pushed them aside and slipped out into the night.

And there he was.

Koven leaned against the iron railing, shirtless, a cigarette dangling between two fingers. Smoke curled around him, soft and slow, blurring the sharp lines of his body into something almost unreal.

For a moment, I didn’t breathe.

He looked... human. Not the cold, polished monster he paraded around the world. Not the billionaire with a wallet heavier than most countries. Just... a man. Tired. Raw.

He must have heard me, because his head tilted slightly. His gaze met mine, dark and unreadable in the moonlight.

"You couldn't sleep," he said.

It wasn’t a question. It was a fact, plain and heavy between us.

I hugged my arms around myself and took a few cautious steps closer. "Neither could you."

He took a slow drag from the cigarette, the ember flaring orange before dying again. He didn’t answer right away.

The silence between us wasn’t the sharp, painful kind we were used to.

It was quieter. Softer. Like the world had paused just for us.

"You always smoke when you can't sleep?" I asked, my voice a little rough from the cold.

"Only when I need to remember I'm still breathing," he said, exhaling smoke into the stars.

Something in my chest twisted.

I stood beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin but careful not to touch. Not yet.

The scars on his back were more visible now, illuminated by the moon’s cruel honesty.

Long, jagged lines. Some healed cleanly. Some didn’t.

I didn’t ask.

I didn't need to know the story to understand that pain had built this man just as much as privilege had.

"I thought men like you didn’t believe in scars," I whispered, not knowing why.

He flicked the ash off the balcony, the glow falling like dying stars. "Men like me don’t get to choose."

The air between us shifted, warmer, heavier.

My hand moved before my mind could catch up.

Slowly, almost trembling, I reached out and traced one of the long, angry lines across his shoulder blade with the tips of my fingers.

He flinched.

Not violently. Not enough to scare me.

But enough to warn.

His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, his fingers wrapping around me tight enough to hold—but not enough to hurt.

"Some parts of me," he said, voice rough, "are not yours to heal."

The words hit harder than they should have.

I looked up at him. His face was inches from mine, close enough for me to see the faint shadows under his eyes, the tightness around his mouth that never seemed to go away.

"I wasn’t trying to heal you," I said, swallowing hard. "I was just... seeing you."

He stared at me for a long time.

Like he didn’t know whether to push me away or pull me closer.

Finally, he let go of my wrist, but he didn’t step back.

Instead, he crushed the cigarette under his bare foot, careless, and leaned down so his forehead almost touched mine.

"You don’t want to see all of me, Zephyra," he murmured, his breath warm against my mouth. "You think you do. But you don’t."

"Try me," I whispered back, the challenge in my voice too reckless for how badly my heart was beating.

His laugh was low, humorless. "Careful what you ask for."

A gust of cold wind blew between us, but neither of us moved.

The distance had already collapsed, and there was no rebuilding it now.

His hand lifted, almost hesitantly, and he brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. His touch was lighter than I ever thought he was capable of—gentle, almost reverent.

"You should hate me," he said, voice a ghost against my skin.

"Maybe I do," I breathed. "Maybe I hate you so much, it feels like something else."

A muscle ticked in his jaw. His eyes dropped to my mouth, and for a moment, the world tilted dangerously.

But he didn’t kiss me.

He stepped back, dragging air and sanity with him.

"You should go back to sleep," he said, his voice cool again, pulling the walls back up around him.

The moment shattered like thin glass between us.

I swallowed the ache rising in my throat and nodded once, sharply.

No softness. No questions. Just survival.

I turned around and walked back inside, my bare feet soundless against the marble.

But even after I slipped under the heavy covers, I could still feel the heat of his skin on my fingertips.

Still taste the smoke and midnight confessions on my tongue.

Sleep didn’t come easily after that.

Not when the ghost of Koven Elrik Mavros lingered beside me, heavy and inescapable, even in dreams.